


sixty two years are not a dream

by Zayrastriel



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:53:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara is young again, but she remembers being old - old, and filled with regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sixty two years are not a dream

_"Sixty two years."_

Clara touches her fingers to her lips, softly.  She knows it's stupid, but those words seem to linger like an over-sweet wine or persistent flavoured lipgloss. 

_Sixty two years._

"You alright?" the Doctor asks her, seemingly an absent-minded nod to convention as he whirls around the console room.  Before Danny died, she would have taken that as just another thing that had changed when he had; from awkwardly caring and charming, to gruff and awkward with a good dollop of chauvinism.

After Danny died, the answer to that question has always spoken itself.  Blunt, harsh, cruel.  God, she'd wanted to tear into him for being there and then not, for not whisking Danny to safety the way he had always done for her. 

"Clara?"

Again, there's a note of impatient indifference that had never failed to put her back up before.

That was before, though.

That was before sixty two years had…hadn't…happened.

So Clara pauses for just a moment, takes in the familiar sight of levers and clutches, the soft purr of the TARDIS engine.  The Doctor's grey curls and ridiculously dramatic coat.

"Sixty two years," she finally says.  They linger in the air, and something in the way the Doctor's eyebrows pull together just slightly tells her that she hasn't been the only one thinking about that dream-nightmare.

(Not of growing old.  Of growing old without him.)

_He was impossible._

"How much do you remember?" the Doctor asks, meeting her gaze steadily.  He's no longer fiddling with the console, despite what he had been saying about this particular destination being especially tricky to navigate towards.

She's still in her nightie, Clara realises suddenly, and barely stifles the absurd urge to giggle.  Nevertheless, something of her amusement must come across, because the Doctor's posture relaxes slightly, some of the wariness leaving his gaze.

"Sorry," she says, tries to compose herself.  "Um, how much do I remember?  Well, there was the Institute.  And Santa, never going to forget that.  And you, driving the sleigh-"

The Doctor stops her with an irritated wave of his hand.  "Not those things," he grouses, "I'd be surprised if you forgot those."  His expression levels again.  "I'm talking about-"

"How much do you think I remember?" Clara interrupts.  She's forgotten how abrasive this Doctor can be, how much he rubs her the wrong way.  How much she secretly loves their banter.

He looks at her for a long moment.  "That’s why I'm asking," he murmurs, and suddenly it's like a shutter falls from his eyes and she can see it all.  All the concern, all the fear, all of the…love.

Tears prickle at her eyes, and for once Clara doesn’t bother to blink them away.  "Sixty two years," she says again, and he doesn't cut across her.  Just listens, for the first time she can remember.  "Sixty two years of being…" not alone, she'd had the lovers and her family and the kids, befriended a couple of her better students and mentored them to success…"being…" 

She trails off, mostly because her voice is too thick with tears for her to continue.

"Being?"

She can't keep looking at him, not when all that pity is in his voice.  So she averts her gaze towards the TARDIS door, lets the tears blur her vision.  "I remember all of it," she says instead, leaving the rest of that sentence unsaid.

All of it.  Sixty two years.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says, which is surprising – not only because this Doctor never says sorry, but also because-

“I’m alright,” Clara whispers.  He’s too close, must have moved towards her when she wasn’t looking.  He’s too close, must be able to see the tears in her eyes and – yep, they’re on her cheeks now, just on the verge of dripping from her chin.  Sixty two years and she’d never cried for her Impossible Man, her Doctor and _now_ …

Softly, so softly she half-thinks she’s hallucinating, fingers brush against her cheek.  And then there’s a hand gripping her chin, turning her head gently. 

“Open your eyes.”  The Doctor’s voice holds a note of what could be tenderness – but it couldn’t be, because _soft_ and _gentle_ and _tender_ don’t suit this man at all.  “Clara, open your eyes.”

She tries to pout, but it’s hard when she can’t widen her eyes at him, make him flustered the way she always has.  “It’s okay, I’m alright-“

“Really?  Well that’s good, because I’m not.”

Clara opens her eyes.  She sort of has to, after that.

His back is curved, and not for the first time she marvels at how much taller than her the Doctor is.  Not just physically, either; it’s like he’s got an aura that extends a little bit outwards but mostly upwards.  A near-physical manifestation of everything that makes him so much _more_ , constantly pushing against the boundaries of himself. 

Right now, though, he’s down with her, face level with hers.

“You’re a bit beautiful, you know that?” Clara says, or her mouth does.

His lips quirk into an almost-smile.  “So are you.”

“Even when I’m old and grey?” she asks teasingly (or with maybe just a bit of panic), and then braces herself for whatever insult he’ll throw her way this time.

But there’s no insult; just another steady look.  His thumb is stroking her jawline, Clara realises.  “Old and young, grey and black, control freak and bossy.  Always beautiful.”

Her vision is blurry again.  “I missed you so much.”  It doesn’t feel like a confession, but it rings out like one.  “I mean – I know it didn’t actually happen, but-“

“I missed you too.  Clara Oswald.  _My_ Clara.” 

The thumb falters.

 _Oh_.

She blinks.  “Oh,” she says, stupidly.  All the tears have cleared away with remarkable suddenness, so she can see his jaw clench and the shutter fall, eyes distant where they had been – for a split second before he had reacted – full of naked fondness.  Affection.

“I overstepped,” the Doctor says quietly and too formally, as fingers leave her face.  But Clara has already anticipated this, is so frustratingly familiar with this Doctor’s unwillingness to trust her, to trust she will care the way he does.  The way _she_ does.

She grasps his wrist, pulls it clumsily back to her face.  Before he can react or she can lose her courage, Clara leans upwards to place a hand on his cheek and urge his lips down to hers.

It’s a light kiss, chaste.  It’s new.  It’s unfamiliar.  But here in the TARDIS, leaning back to gaze into the Doctor’s eyes (not that she needs to, when his spare arm wraps around her waist)…

…it feels like coming home.

“You didn’t,” Clara says, slightly breathless.

He looks as dazed as she feels.  “I…what?”

“You didn’t overstep.”

This time, he’s the one who kisses her.

(And this time…not chaste at _all_.)


End file.
